


Myshka

by arrowsong



Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-22
Updated: 2014-12-22
Packaged: 2018-03-02 19:56:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,753
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2824232
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/arrowsong/pseuds/arrowsong
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>While the reader and her family are fleeing the guards of Laketown their vessel nearly crashes into a barge in the middle of the lake throwing the reader.  Rescuing the reader, Bard learns that despite their cultural differences they are more alike than it may seem.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Myshka

The sound of heavy footprints fell against the cobbled streets behind you as you ran through a series of narrow streets trying to find your way back to the dock told you the guards were still close on your trail.  Your hand clasped firmly around your brothers as you dragged him behind you as you flew as fast your feet would carry you.

Your only crime was purchasing a loaf of bread with foreign coins.  You and your family had been travelling for months now, but it had been nearly three weeks since you stopped by a town for fresh rations.  You were in an area that was hostile towards your kind, then again everywhere you stopped was hostile towards your people.  One hour.  That was all the time your father gave you, and your brother, to buy some fresh rations.  “Safety in numbers” he told you when you argued against bringing him.  He was young and foolish, and just as you predicted, he got you noticed by the wrong people.  
He mixed the coins you were supposed to use in this town with the coins he used in the North, and the vendor noticed the strange marks on the coins and the strange words he spoke to you.  Then it dawned on him, what you were, where you were from.  Once he realized the origins of the coin, the vendor called for the guards and their dogs to come, and now you were running for your lives.

Rounding the corner on your left, you saw your father sitting on the edge of the dock, craving something in a block of wood.  Desperate for his attention you started shouting to him in your native tongue, garnering several peculiar glances in your direction.  Secrecy was no longer an issue, they knew you were here, and now you needed to get out.  Looking up from his carving your father saw the look of terror and panic on your faces before he caught sight of the guards running you down, weapons drawn, dogs snarling at your brother Alexei’s heels.  Abandoning his craft he worked quickly to untie the barge from the dock. 

Bringing Alexei in front of you, you help him clamber on to the barge, and into your mother’s waiting arms before jumping yourself.  Eager hands help you climb aboard as your father pushes off, leaving the guards and their vicious dogs stranded on the dock.  Sighing with relief you sit on the edge, watching the water break beneath your vessel.

“Myshka,” your mother calls for you.  “What happened?  Why were those men chasing you and Rybka?”  She asked using the sweet little nicknames she always used for you and your brother since you were infants swaddled at her breast.  It no longer mattered that the two of you towered over her, you would always be her little mouse, and fish. 

“I mixed the coins, mama,” Alexei explained bashfully.  For a young man of fifteen he suddenly looked like he did when he was eight, the shame on his face turned back the hands of time.  “Myshka caught on before the vendor, and together we ran.  I’m sorry papa,” he apologized looking towards your father at the helm.  His weathered face was stone cold, lips pursed into a tight, thin line as he kept his eyes ahead.  There were times you could still see the handsome face and jovial man he once was, but in the moment that man was far from sight.  
“Alexei,” he scolded, his voice low but harsh, and so sharp it cut with a single word.  “You foolish boy.  Myshka was right; you should have stayed at the boat.  Do you know what would have happened to you if those guards caught you?  You not only endangered yourself, but your sister as well.  Do you forget where we are?  This is Thranduil’s realm.  The elf king controls these towns, their trade, and their money. They do his bidding, whatever he asks, they do.  They would not think twice of letting the two of you rot in a cell for the rest of your days if the king commanded it.  King Thranduil does not look favourably on our people.  He will not be pleased to know we are here; they will hunt us.  We must leave.”  
“And go where?” asked Alexei.  “We have no rations.”  Miserable, and wracked with guilt he sat on the barge floor, looking over the sides watching the water roll by you.

“We will find a way,” you promise, wrapping your brother’s shoulders, lovingly, with your threadbare red shawl trying to give him some sense of warmth against your father’s cold.  “We always get by Rybka.” You sooth as you rub his shoulders affectionately.  “You know we do.”

“Listen to your sister, Rybka,” your mother chimes in, bringing the two of you a small piece of stale bread.  Mold has yet to form, but it is not far off.  “We have each other, and that is what matters.” 

Taking your hand in his, he kisses the inside of your palm, and you hold it against his cheek.  “At least we’ve left the guards behind us,” he mumbles looking up at you with the same steel grey eyes of your father. 

You smile, seeing the optimism burning behind those eyes.  Your brother was young, and still had much to learn of the ways of the world.  But you trusted he would learn, and next time he was allowed to venture into town he would be even more careful not to reveal himself. 

Smiling you look at the town you were leaving in your wake, when something caught your eyes.  “Papa,” you cry looking back to your father.  Quickly, Alexei, your mother and father look to where your trembling fingers pointed.  A barge, twice the size of yours came from the town, it would overcome you in a couple of hours if not sooner.

“The guards,” your father cursed, “they must be following us,” he sighed, casting a pointed look at Alexei who hid his face in your skirts.

Smoothing your brother’s hair you whispered words of comfort in your native tongue, assuring him all would be fine.

“We will sail for the nearest coast and take a land pass to the other side.  We can lose them there and make out way for Gondor.  Your uncle Petyr says business is good in Osgiliatth.  We will head there,” your father informs you.  Turning his gaze back to his path, your father suddenly made a hard turn to avoid a collision with a second barge.  This one roughly the same size as your families. 

Alexei and your mother both hit the  deck of the vessel as your father curses.  No one notices at first that you are thrown from the boat into the icy depths of the water below.  Splashing around in the frigid waters you hear your mother and brother begin to start frantically scream your name.  Teeth chattering you see the blonde head of hair belonging to your brother bob above the barge.   He screams something at you.

You can barely hear him though, the sound of your teeth chattering and the waves pounding around you drown out most of the noise and you attempt to stay above water.  There was a reason why your brother was called the little fish.  He was the swimmer, not you.  You were little mouse, you scurried, you hid easily and could sneak around with ease.  You did not take to water the way your brother had. 

You can still hear Alexei screaming for papa to turn around, as he held your wailing mother, stopping her from climbing in the water after you.  You know the boat will not turn around.  Your father will not risk the well being of the family, not even for you, his daughter, his eldest.   “You scream for them the keep moving, not to turn back for you.  There is no sense in risking their lives to save yours.  The good of the family always came before the good of the individual – that was the rule by which you lived.

Watching the boat continue sailing with out you, you hardly notice your limbs grow heavy; your splashing becomes less panicked.  Your teeth stop chattering, and your every movement slows until the water slowly rises above your head.  Your chest contracts and you watch passively as tiny air bubbles float to the surface.  Everything slowly starts fading to black when there is a sudden rush of movement to your left and something wraps around your waist.  It’s pulling you up.    The two of you break the surface with a loud gasp and your thrown over a broad shoulder before being helped to the deck of a barge.

Confused and disorientated you draw your dripping, soaked skirts close to your body as you curl into a ball as you lean against the side, still sitting on the deck, desperate for any kind of warmth.   Shivering you keep your eyes cast down, wondering who pulled you out of the water.  It wasn’t your family, the wood on your deck wasn’t polished, it was heavily worn and more than a little rough in some patches, this was relatively nice.   On the other hand you were terrified, you half expected some one to clap iron shackles on your wrists before hauling you off the side.

A pair of worn out boots, in desperate need of repair, stepped in front of you.  Your eyes slowly drift up, taking note of the dripping,  shabby apparel of your rescuer until your eyes were met with a blazing pair of brown eyes.  The grip you had around your legs tightened and you inhaled quickly.  The expression on the man’s face was unreadable.  You couldn’t tell if he was friend or foe.  While he spared you from a watery grave beneath the frigid waves, it did not mean he had something worse in mind for you.  Unable to stand the weight of his gaze on you any longer you look away quickly, twiddling the mud stained hem of your skirt between your fingers.

“You’re alright now.  I won’t hurt you,” the man assured, handing you an oversized coat.  His.  He must have removed it before jumping in the waters after you. 

You looked back up at him unable to hide the terror and slight mistrust from your eyes.  He pushes the coat closer towards you.  “Here,” he insists. 

Reluctantly, you take the coat from his hands, either too cold or too scared to thank him properly you offer a meagre little nod instead.  Wrapping the coat around yourself you eventually stopped shivering, grateful for the strangers kindness.  Looking back up at him, you noticed he returned to his position at the helm, steering the boat right back towards Laketown, and towards the ship full of guards, the guards who were out for you and your brother, the guards who knew your face.

Alerted by your squeak of terror, the man turned back to see the colour drain from your face.  Looking back to the boat filled with Laketown guards and your ghostly complexion he cursed under his breath.  “Get under this,” he lifted a large tarp, shielding his stock from the elements.

Confused you stared blankly at him. 

Groaning, he looked back at the gaining ship and to you. “We don’t have much time.  I need my coat back,” he urged, lifting the tarp again for you.  “Please, trust me.”  He pled softly.

Strangely, you slowly shuffle towards the tarp.  What’s even stranger is that you do.  You trust this man.  You didn’t know why; perhaps it was the gentle, yet comforting expression behind his eyes that soothed your constantly jangled nerves.  You hand back the coat, watching his as he slides it on and tries to dry as much of himself as possible before dropping the corner of the tarp so you were completely concealed from sight.  

Your heart pounds in your ears as you wait, what for you’re not entirely sure, but still you wait.  Finally after what felt like an eternity you heard a muffled exchange of voices.

“Evening Bard,” greeted an unfamiliar voice.

“Evening Berthold, how can I be of service?”  

“We’re pursuing a family of gypsies seen in the town.  They were seen fleeing on a barge, most likely a stolen vessel from a neighbouring town.  You know their kind, why pay when it could be free.”

You bit your tongue until you taste blood as to not give away your position.  Your cheeks burned as you fumed away furiously beneath your cover.  How dare they imply that your boat was stolen.  You father purchased that boat with the money you earned collectively in Bree.  He may have his faults, but your father had always been an fair and honest man. 

“Did you happen to see where they went?  There was an attractive young woman with her younger brother, and their parents.”  Berthold added a few other inane descriptions of you and your parents.  Mercifully, no one had as a clear image of you as you feared.

“Well if I happen to find an attractive young woman wandering about, I’ll be sure to keep her far away from you.” Bard replied to several guffaws from the other boat.  A hand clapped a shoulder several times.   “Now that you mention it, I did see a strange barge turn down Forest River, perhaps they’re heading for the Grey Mountains.” 

He lied.  He was close enough to see that your family was going nowhere near Forest River, but down the Celduin.  Forest River cut through Mirkwood, right where the King who hated your kind so much dwelt.  Your father would rather take his chances with the guards than enter Mirkwood. 

The captain of the guards thanked Bard for his help.  You peeked out from under the tarp, lifting it only a crack to see he has turned around to head back to his own ship, his heavy steps stop suddenly as his eye catches something.  Your heart stops in fear that you’ve been seen.

“What happened here?” He asked looking at the small puddle from where you’d been sitting. 

“Barrel got away from me.  Had to go into the water after it,” sighed Bard no hint of anxiety or stress in his voice.  He replied as casually as though the guard had just asked him to describe the weather. 

“Mhm, well better luck next time You should really learn to tie those things down.”

“To you as well.  I hope you catch your gypsies.”

The guard thanked him and boarded his ship again.  Still, you remain hidden beneath the tarp until Bard lifted it off from you.

“That was too close,” he warned, dark eyes blazing and trained solely on you.

Hesitantly you came out, unable to part your gaze from his.  He was angry.   Something the guard said must have angered him – but what? You didn’t know, and to be frank, you didn’t want to see him angry.  Papa told you stories of what men would do when they were angry, and with no one else for him to exact his rage on, you did not want to find out if he was one of those men.  The kind of men who hit their women, and screamed at them for all to hear, forcing them to cover up their bruised and bloodied bodies when out in the public eye where they played the doting husband.  The hair on the back of your neck stood up.

“Is it true?” he demanded.  Without waiting for your answer he reached forward, grabbing at your wrist.  Despite your angry objections as you struggled against his hold, he rolled the sleeve of your blouse up exposing the intricate designs of henna trailing up your arms.  As an unmarried woman you were only permitted to mark your body with the red henna dye; it would not be until your marriage that you would take the blue woad and mark yourself permanently. 

“Gypsy,” he confirmed, angrily dropping your wrist from his hands, and stormed off to the front of his vessel. 

“So what if I am?” You shook, your rage acted as a balm for your fears, as your fiery spirit soon found itself back to you giving you the strength to speak for the first time since this Bard brought you onto his barge.   “Since when is practicing your culture a crime?”

“So you can talk?” scoffed Bard with petty amusement. 

“Of course I talk,” you retort, your Northern accent thick.  “Do you expect me to sit here in silence as while you and those ruthless thugs hurl insults against me, my family, and everything we believe in?” You demand storming towards him.  “Then again, what do I expect from man who knows nothing of hardship, and has lived in comfort his entire life.”  You turn to walk back to your side of the ship, counting down the hours minutes until your back on dry land and can begin figure a way to rejoin your family.  A hand on your shoulder stops you, and spins you around until you look the man in the eye.

“I know of hardship,” he spat venomously at you, shaking you slightly as he spoke.  “Do not talk to me living without comfort.  My family has lived in poverty most of their life, only unlike yours we have never resorted to tricks and thievery to get by.  We earn an honest living.”

The loud crack of skin on skin ripple through the air as you slap this Bard with all your force.  “How dare you,” you seethe, dropping your hand back to your side, wrestling out from his grip.  “We are not thieves.  My family has never stolen a thing. Not so much as a crumb of bread, even as we starved with nothing in our bellies but hunger clawing at our innerds because men set our camps on fire.   Just because we are gypsies we must be thieves and beggars.  What do you know of hardship?” you scoff.  “Do men and elves burn your camps for the simple reason that they are yours?  Do they chase you through streets with dogs and rocks because you wanted to buy a loaf of bread with your foreign coin, so you could feed the brother of yours who had not eaten in three days?”

Bard looked at you, his brows risen, stunned.

“That’s right buy – not steal!  We earn our living where your kind will let us, but they will not let us. You hate us. You call us vermin, thieves, and whores.  Just because we practice the old ways, we are somehow worth less than you.   You, who force us from our homes, force us to travel and beg; then who hunt us for living the lives you forced us into.  So tell me again of this hardship you know so well, where you are persecuted without mercy for the crime of living.”  
You no longer felt the cold as your rage burned, warming your body, years of pent up anger and outrage smouldered deep within your heart.  Adjusting your soaked blouse you turn your back to him and take a seat on the upper level of the barge.  Wrapping your arms around your knees you sulk.  Staving off the tears you know want to spill, but you deny them.  You refuse to let this man see you cry, you will not give him the privilege of seeing your hurt.  “You should have just left me in the water – what is one more drowned mouse?” you curse silently, recalling the faces of your mother and brother, crying violently, calling for you.  They would not know if you lived or died. That perhaps hurt you most of all.  

The sound of footsteps, and a body sitting next to you disturbed your thoughts.  “You have a right to be angry,” Bard apologized.  “I know nothing your struggles, and for my arrogance, I am sorry.  You have a name?” he asked, his tone softer, gentler than it had been before.

“Not one you can pronounce,” you look at him, laughing.  His tongue leadened by the language of his people would trip clumsily over your name. 

“I need something to call you, other than gypsy,” he pointed out with a meagre smile. 

“Myshka.  That’s what my mother and brother called me.” You tell him after a minute.

He tried to repeat the name, butchering the pronunciation on the first attempt, making you laugh harder than you had in days. 

“Meesh-ka” you repeat slowly, emphasizing each syllable.  “It means little mouse,” you explain. 

“It suits you,” Bard smiled for the first time since he laid eyes on you.  “Not because you are vermin,” he added quickly.  “You’re stubborn, and willing to survive,” he explained when he saw your eyes darken. 

“Thank-you, Bard,” your accent draws out the A in his name, making him chuckle at your own mispronunciation. 

"You have quite the hand," he muses rubbing the side of the face where you slapped him.  Instantly you apologize, but he shrugs it off.  "I deserved it," he assures you.  “You can’t stay in those wet clothes,” he observed.  “You look about the same size as my wife.  You’ll stay with us tonight, and you can decide where to go come morning.”  He offered in amends for his earlier offense. 

“And what will your wife say when she finds out her husband is offering up her clothes to strange gypsy women?”   
Bard stiffened.  He wasn’t sure why he mentioned Freyja to a total stranger.  He could have just as easily said the clothes were his daughter’s.  “She died the year before last.  A fever took her and our unborn child.”

“I am sorry for your loss,” you reply taking his hand.  Absent-mindedly you trace a small symbol between his thumb and forefinger with your nail.  

“What’s that?” he asked looking down at the invisible sign.  He could still feel it etched deep in his skin though he could see no trace of it on his skin.

“That is a symbol of protection, so the Gods may bless and watch over the soul of your loved ones.  You carve it into your skin as a sign of mourning, but also a reminder that you have not forgotten them.”  You explain showing him the faint scar of the same symbol carved into your own skin.   Before he could ask, you explain, speaking softly, “my baby brother.  He did not live past infancy.  Mama was so hungry she could not make enough milk to feed him, and he died in her arms.  I was just a little girl then, but I remember papa beating his hands bloody, crying to the Gods, wondering why they had forsaken us.  Why they would bless him with a family he then could not provide for.  A few years later Alexei was born.  What little food we had he and mama gave to Alexei and I, telling us that we had to keep strong.  He went days without eating just to make sure we had enough.”  
 Bard said nothing, but offered you an apologetic look.  He realized that the two of you were not as different as he initially believed.  He remembered the feeling of helplessness when Freyja came down with the fever sweeping through the town.  He didn’t have the money to take her to the healer, the Master, he father, was of no help; without the proper medicine she and your unborn son growing in her belly succumbed to the illness.  Were it not for the children he doubted he would have found the strength to carry on after her passing.  But there were days where he could not move, could not breath without the anguish of losing Freyja crashing down around him.

 

The two of you rode the rest of the way into Laketown in utter silence, but there seemed to be a calm understanding between you now there had not been before, making the silence bearable, almost comfortable.   As Bard helped you up the stairs into the small wooden house he was greeted by three children rushing towards him, wrapping him in loving arms and a chorus of “welcome home, Da.”

It warmed your heart to see such a sight, but to see such happy smiling faces saddened you as well.  Tonight you knew, wherever your family set up their camp, there would be no smiling faces as your mother and brother mourned your loss.  Your father would sit away from the fire light, brooding, and he would remain distant for the days to come – the same way he’d been when mama lost Nikolai.

“Da, who’s that?” asked the youngest girl looking in your direction.

“This is Myshka,” Bard explained quickly.  “She’s . . . uh. . .  a friend.  She’ll be staying with us tonight until we can find a way to get her back to her family.  Sigrid, pull down that chest of your mother’s things. Let’s see if he can find something dry for Myshka to wear,” Bard instructed. 

You emerged later, dressed in a warm woollen dress and wrap.  Sigrid and Tilda smile at you as Bard takes a moment to appreciate the dress, informing you how it compliments your figure. 

As a thank-you for his kindness and generosity you insisted on making supper for Bard and the children.  Using one of the recipes your mother taught you, you made a wild grain soup with hearty root vegetables and chunks of fish.   Tilda helped you prepare the vegetables and stirring the soup, while Sigrid helped you bake a kind of pan bread that your father made when you could afford the price of flour. 

“That was delicious,” declared Bard, pushing his empty bowl away from him.  You rose to gather the empty dishes from Bard and the children.

“Yeah, better than the slop Sigrid makes us eat,” Bain teased shooting his sister an impish grin.

“Well I don’t see you helping or making supper, fat head,” Sigrid shot back, giving Bain a shove. 

“I help Da,” retorted Bain shoving back.

Speaking rapidly in your native tongue, you talk over the arguing children, causing them to stop mid-sentence and stare back at you.  You cast them a knowing glance over your shoulder, the same way your mother would when you and Alexei started bickering.  Chuckling, Bard rose up from the table and together he two of you cleaned the dishes while the children helped to tidy the kitchen.

“That was well done,” he observed, referring to the way you settled Bain and Sigrid’s squabble.

“Was nothing.  My brother and I use to fight all the time,” you explain handing him another bowl to put away.  “I know how siblings argue.” 

That night you slept by the fireplace, even though Bard offered you his bed, you declined.  He had already put himself and his children at risk by rescuing you.  You did not want to put him out any more than you already had, even though he insisted it was no problem.

You did not leave come morning.  After rising, to see that during the night you had mended his jacket, and whatever other garments you found, Bard made the argument that for your safety you should remain at the house.  “At least until your tattoos have faded,” he reasoned.  Hide until the designs that marked you as gypsy faded from sight and you could pass unnoticed through the town.  Reluctantly you agreed, much to the delight of the children.   
Over the next few weeks you remained in the house, helping the girls cook and clean, while Bard and Bain made their living out on the barge.  You even managed to convince Bard to let you go to the market a couple times to buy supplies with the girls; you wore a heavy cloak and when asked about your accent you claimed to be the cousin of Bard’s brother’s deceased wife from the North. Then you would return home to make dinner for Bard so it would be waiting on the table for him when he came home from work.  He would smile at you, weary from his days, and afterwards you all would sit by the fire with the children regaling them with stories of your travels and your people.

Eventually the henna faded, and your last night with Bard and the children had arrived.  As a thank you to them for their wonderful hospitality and giving you the happiest weeks you could recall in years, you made your famed rabbit stew with real bread with an apple pie for a treat.

After you finished with the dishes and the kitchen was clean, you sat near the hearth telling stories from your travels, as you had come to do everynight before the children went to bed.  “Is it really true, that gypsies can tell the future just by looking at your hands?” asked Tilda thoughtfully. 

You laugh at the shock, and worry on Bard’s face, afraid that his youngest had offended you he began to apologise but you stopped him with a wave of your hand.  You grew accustom to the bluntness of children, and found it rather refreshing compared to the games adults always seemed to play.

“Only some are born with the gift of sight,” you explain with a wry smile at the disappointed look in the young girl’s face.  “Fortunately, you happen to be in the presence of one born with such a gift.”

“Could you read ours?” asked Sigrid with excitement.  “Please, it’s your last night!”

You motion for the children to come and sit in front of the fire.  Smoothing your skirt, you sit by the blaze and have Sigrid place her palm in your lap.  The others gather around, and listen as you begin detailing the events to come in her life.  Once you finished with her, Tilda wanted a turn; even Bain, though he remained skeptical stepped up for a turn as well.  Once you finished he babbled excitedly to his father about the heroism and glory you saw in his future, making his father chuckle and smile, assuring his son that he never had any doubt. 

Soon it was time for the children to ready themselves for bed, and it was only you and Bard sitting in the dimly lit kitchen.  You didn’t know how you got on to the topic but you found yourself talking about your family and the life you recalled before you lived on the road. 

“Papa use to make toys in village for the children, until some men discovered that he practiced same religion as his fathers which meant they worshipped different Gods, they burned down his workshop.  After that we travelled from town to town as papa tried to find work, but no one wanted a gypsy.  When I was old enough I started to go into the towns with him selling what remedies I could, reading palms here and there, anything I could do to earn a few extra coins.  Mama and Alexei stayed in the wagon, until Papa and I came back.  Then we’d move to the next town.  We never stayed anywhere longer than a night or two.”

“That must have been rough,” commented Bard taking another drink from his little tin cup.

“That was our life," you shrug in all honesty. "It never seemed to matter where we were.  So long as we had each other everything was well.  No matter how bad things got, we always found a way to make them work.”

“That sounds familiar,” Bard looked in the direction of his now sleeping children before sighing.  They were no strangers to lean times, but they never complained.  Not once.  “The children adore you,” he observed after a moment passed.

“They’re good kids,” You nod with a tiny smile.  Tilda is a sweetheart, Sigrid is fiery, she has a lot of spirit.”

“Just like her mother,” Bard smiled ruefully staring into the flame. 

“And Bain will grow to be strong, and a good man, just like his father,” you nod in Bard’s direction.  You felt strangely at home with the bowman and his children.  You would not say it aloud, but the prospect of leaving tomorrow saddened you.

“See that in his palm did you?” Bard teases you with a boyish grin.  You know with a single look this is the first time he has looked boyish in years.  It suited him though, to see him look so happy and carefree.  He wore his concerns too strongly on his face, and his children could see it.  It made them worry, and older beyond their years. 

“You doubt?” You look over at him, watching as the shadows flicker across his face, realising not for the first time just how handsome of a face it was.  “Come with me, I show you.”  You take him over by the fire and sit him down before you like you had with the children.

“What’s the fire for?”

“It’s so I can see you better,” you explained smiling shyly, taking his hand in yours.  Tracing along the numerous lines on his palms you look contemplative.  “You come from long noble line, though forced now into ridicule when an arrow missed the mark.  You became a bowman, you father taught you how.”

Bard sat back, stunned.  “How do you know any of that?”

You look up from his hand to him through long dark lashes.  “In this hand is written your past,” you explain.  Dropping that hand you take the other, “and here, is written your future.”  Turning the hand over so you may take a look you smile.  “Your love line is long,” you observe.  “There is a slight disruption here,” you trace your finger along the line, pointing softly at the contour; that would represent where his wife died.  “But you see here it continues.”  Moving along, trying to ignore the sudden jump in your heart beat you look for something else to tell him.  “Ah, here,” you point at a different part of his palm, “your fortunes will change, and the honour of your family restored when father and son unite to release the arrow into the heart of a great beast.”  
“And what about your future?” Bard asks, turning his hand so now it holds yours. 

“You read palms?” you asked in amusement, wondering what exactly he was up to.

Bard said nothing, and his smirk gave nothing away.  Studying your hand, but focusing on nothing in particular he smiled.  “Ah, yes.  Looks here you’ve lived your life on the road, and your family has been the only thing that has ever mattered to you.  What I see here,” he pointed at a random spot, “is that you told them to sail on without you not only to save them from the Laketown guards, but also because you realised you could not follow them forever.  The time had come for you to stop following and make your own family.”

You look up from where he held your hand to meet his eyes with yours.  They way he looks at you with the fire flickering behind him makes your heart leap in your chest and you realise that he has yet to let go of your hand.  “You . . . you are very good,” you nod, swallowing hard though your throat has turned to ash and you can not breath. 

His fingers curl around yours, so they interlock in a firm yet somehow tender embrace.  His other hand tucks a stray tendril of hair behind your ear before pulling your face closer.  Before you could react, his lips brushed against yours stealing a fervent, desperate kiss.

Warmth floods to your limbs as you lean closer, threading your fingers in his midnight black hair, deepening the kiss.  You do not know what it is you feel as you kiss him, but you know that you like it and you do not want it to end, but it does.

Breaking the kiss, Bard runs his fingers through your hair before resting a hand on the back of your neck.  “Don’t go,” he whispers to you, his voice can barely be heard over the crackle of the fireplace.  “Please,” he begs.  “Don’t leave.  The children love you, and I . . .” his voice catches for a moment before he continues, “And so do I,” he admits.  “So stay with us, let us be your family,” he pleads with you.  
You breath heavily, unable to speak.  You feel like that time when Alexei accidentally kicked you in the gut when you were fighting.  Only this time you didn’t feel angry or cried, you were happy.  Love.  That was what you felt.  A grin broke across your face as you looked back at Bard, without saying a word your flung yourself at him, wrapping both arms around his neck as you knock him over while kissing him again.

“Does that mean you’ll stay?” he grinned up at you from where you both lay on the floor.

You grin back down at him, unable and unwilling to contain your excitement.  “Yes is my answer.  The question is not hard.” 

Pulling you back down, Bard kisses you again.  “This changes things you know?” He asked sitting up next to you.  When you ask him what he means, he replies, “well for one thing, you can’t keep sleeping on the floor.” He gets to his feet, and helps you to yours.  “Might you consider sharing a bowman’s bed with him?” he asked, eyes dancing mischievously, making you blush.

“I would not share a bowman’s bed,” you reply quickly.  “But I would very much like to share yours.”

Letting out a deep, robust laugh, Bard pulled you in for another impassioned kiss before leading you to your new room.

 

One Year Later

 

“Mama, papa,” Alexei ran towards his mother where she stood by the family’s hut tending to their goat.  Papa stepped out from the hut, his pipe tucked between his teeth.

“What is it Rybka?” she asked turning to see her son holding a piece of parchment in his hand.  His face flushed with excitement as he puffed from his run.  Petyr followed behind the boy, not having had a chance to actually read the letter himself.

“Uncle Petyr got a letter.  It’s from Myshka,” the lad cried excitedly handing the parchment to his mother.   Quickly she snatched it from his hands and her eyes began scanning the familiar scrawl as Petyr, Alexei and her husband gathered around her, eager to hear what Myshka had to say.

“Heaven’s be blessed,” she whispered a tear springing from her eye.  “Your sister is married.  She was rescued from the lake by a bargeman from the town.  They were married this winter, and are expecting their first child together this summer.”  She cried, happy tears, to read of her daughter’s good fortune.  “She is already mother to his three children from his late wife and they live happily in Dale, where she is . . . ” Mama put the letter down, unable to believe what she read she laughed as she cried.

“What is it mama?” asked Alexei anxiously.

Papa took the letter from his tearful wife’s hands and read the letter aloud for Alexei and Petyr to hear.  “We live well now in Dale where Bard has been made king after slaying the dragon Smaug, restoring his family’s honour with the help of his son Bain, and rebuilding the city of Dale.  Of course this has no change in how I feel about him.  I love him whether we live in a palace in Dale or in the cramped wooden house in Laketown . . . ”

Papa set the paper down, laughing in disbelief.  His daughter, his beautiful headstrong daughter was a queen.  But more than that, his little Myshka was married with a family of her own, and she was happy.

“Can we visit Myshka, papa?  Can we?” Alexei begged.

“Of course, my boy,” he smiled looking over at his wife with tears in her eyes.  He opened his arms and pulled her in for a tender embrace.  They had long given up hope that their Myshka had survived the icy waters that day; never did they believe she would be alive let alone married to a King with a baby on the way. “Go saddle the mule.  It will be a long journey to Dale from Osgiliath.  I dare say this may very well be the last one we make.”


End file.
